Our planned six-weeks stay in Rota meant there was enough time for a road trip – or a vacation from our vacation might be a lighthearted way of putting it.

  We did this on our last visit because there was a hole in our reservation that we had to fill. This time, it was to fill Carol’s need to “get away,” (as if Rota, Spain hadn’t already sufficiently gotten us away?)

  At dinner, even though I was able to order a bottle of a local dry white in pitch perfect Spanish (my teacher’s assessment) the waiter sniffed his acknowledgement as if I were a typical Australian or German busmate, and he had just tripped over my Ale-Hop bag.

  This excursion would include day trips to a couple of nearby beach towns, San Lucar (famous for their tortillas de camarones) and Conil de Frontera, famous for the longest uphill walk from the beach to where we’d parked. Our stayover destination was the mountaintop town of Ronda, a favorite destination for tour buses and dating back to the time of the Moors.*

  Not being a fan of places favored by tour buses, I was wary of our (read: Carol’s) stay for the night. But we were treated to both a breathtaking view of the town’s El Tajo gorge from the balcony of our hotel room and, later, an overpriced dinner served by a cadre of condescending waiters, the first we’ve experienced outside of Paris.

  As soon as we plopped our bags down in the room I had a Spanish class I was already late for. Carol went exploring, which meant there’d been a list of “must see” sites for me when she returned at the completion of my lesson. This is the main difference between Carol and me. Had she been the Spanish student and I’d been the sightseer, all she would have had to do was join me at the first wicker-chaired cafe located closest to the entrance of the hotel.

  So, instead of sitting and watching a passing parade of German and Australian busmates toting Ale-Hop bags, I was treated to several stunning views of the gorge, a park dedicated to the memory of the town’s bullfighting legends and the oldest bullring in Spain.

  
At dinner, even though I was able to order a bottle of a local dry white in pitch perfect Spanish (my teacher’s assessment) the waiter sniffed his acknowledgement as if I were a typical Australian or German busmate, and he had just tripped over my Ale-Hop bag.

  The attempt to pretend we didn’t exist continued throughout the meal, dessert and coffee, which included a request for an additional glass of wine that was never delivered but charged on the bill.

  The next morning we toured the bullring, whose audiophone produced the interesting tidbit that there’d been a movement to ban bullfighting as early as the 1700s. Profits prevailed and the “sport” continued on, though it’s comforting to note that there are countries (Portugal for one) where the bull is not killed. (They all go to an Ale-Hop for gifts afterwards.**)

  But it’s predictable of me that in full view of one of the most dramatic geological formations in Spain visible from my hotel room’s balcony that I would prefer to stew over a handful of tourist-jaded waiters who’d treated me like I’d just got off a bus and had asked them for directions to the Ale-Hop.

*Moops for all you Seinfeldians.

** Don’t look it up.